


Don't.

by sinistra_blache



Category: Doctor Who & Related Fandoms
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon, M/M, POV Second Person
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-01-12
Updated: 2012-01-12
Packaged: 2017-10-29 10:11:44
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,186
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/318771
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sinistra_blache/pseuds/sinistra_blache
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the Master tries to talk himself out of something, and fails.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Don't.

**Author's Note:**

> This involves the Doctor before he regenerates into the Shalkaverse version of Nine, but after he has created the Masterbot. The Masterbot is the Master himself, his conciousness inserted into a robot body. Ace McShane is travelling with them.   
> Based on a roleplay from twitter, years ago.

He just won’t shut up. Hydro-electrics this, and “have you finished the code” that. And when he’s not talking about repairs or sly work behind the council’s back, he’s just...babbling. Talking about all his blasted “friends” and all the different places he’s been and all the planets he’s saved and all the planets he didn’t save and on and on and on. He’s not even telling you the stories, not really. He’s just talking to stop himself thinking. Old habits. You’ve seen him do this too many times to count. He’s running away from his problems by burying himself in something else, and it’s maddening.

“And then!” he giggles, still underneath the consol and tinkering with something or another. “Jo just blurted out, ‘but Doctor, it was a horse!’”

“I could be working on that code right now instead of listening to this inane tripe.”

“Hm? Did you say something?” he pokes his head out and looks up at you.

Don’t bring your foot down to meet his face. Don’t smash in that face of his with the foot he crafted himself. Don’t stomp until you can’t feel it crunch anymore. Don’t. Don’t.

“Nothing important, I’m sure,” you answer.

He sits up and pushes a lock of hair away from his eyes. You watch him study you. He always does that, like he can tell what you’re thinking just by the look on your face. That stupid arrogance.

“What’s wrong?” he asks.

“Nothing,” you answer dully, laying the screwdriver down on the consol. “I’m going back to my work. I trust you can handle things here on your own? Good. You can bore your TARDIS with your stories.”

Of course he follows you.

“Is it the code? Look, I know it’s infuriating now but you’re making real progress from what you’ve shown me...”

“Stop trying to placate me, Doctor.”

“I’m not trying to placate you.”

“No?” You’ve turned to face him so quickly that he stumbles just a little as he tries to stop. He catches himself on the wall of the corridor. “You’re not just saying what I want you to? Please, Doctor. Please, tell me again how well I’m doing. Why don’t you give me a gold star while you’re at it?” He’s pressed himself against the wall now. You’ve raised your voice and you’ve moved closer. You can see the hairs on his face but they’re not shaking as they should. His face is plastered with a mask of fear, but he’s just acting.

“Master, I don’t...” he starts. He’s pushed further against the wall so quickly his breath catches and he’s forced to stop. You’ve placed your hands firmly on his shoulders and his one free hand is resting against your chest, giving him the illusion of distance. His eyes widen a little and, yes there it is, actual fear. But only for a second.

His eyes soften slightly and he slips two fingers past a button on your shirt. The tips brush lightly against your chest and, without your permission, you’re reacting. “Perhaps I need to make a different approach?”

You mirror his smile. You even loosen your grip a little on his shoulders. He pushes himself away from the wall to bring his body against yours and he’s already working through the buttons on your shirt. He works slowly, clearly waiting for an official go-ahead from you. So you plant a kiss on his lips and let go of one of his shoulders. His fingers work a little faster. You run your free hand through his hair (it’s so soft this regeneration around, it’s impossible to ignore) before starting to untie his cravat. He’s almost done with the shirt, but he’s left it in favour of trying to unbutton your trousers with one hand. Nearly, you’ve nearly got the blasted thing untied...

“Wait,” he pants. “We can’t here. Ace might...” He clears his throat. “Not here.”

“Yes,” you answer. “Here.”

Don’t crush his shoulder with your hand. Don’t squeeze until the fabric tears, the skin snaps with tension, and the bone cracks. Don’t imagine him screaming, begging. Don’t.

He shudders slightly, still thinking this is a game. He’s always thinking it’s a game. And you’re so angry that all you can think to do is hurt him, make him see. You kiss him and you make sure it hurts. He whimpers softly, and it isn’t quite enough. You bite down and don’t stop until that cravat is loose and in your hand. He’s holding back, trying not to make any noise.

You dab at your mouth lightly with his stupid necktie, watching as the Doctor’s blood seeps through the fine silk. One hand is still pinning him to the wall, but your grip has loosened a little more and he’s sagging. He’s shaking from a mixture of pure arousal and slight shock. His pupils have dilated. His hands are still resting lightly on the top of your trousers.

“I’ve always hated this thing,” you say conversationally, twisting the cravat around you hand. “So pretentious. Crushed velvet? A neckerchief? It’s like you were thinking ‘how can I be more insufferable’”.

“...I’m not insufferable,” he whispers. His eyes are locked on the piece of cloth knotted around your knuckles. “You suffer me. Regularly.”

He’s smirking. Don’t push him down onto his knees. Don’t pull his head back and twist the cravat around his neck. Don’t tighten until he stops gasping, stops fighting. Don’t watch as his eyes glaze over and his face changes colour once then twice then stops changing completely.

But he’s already on his knees. You’ve snapped the cloth open and you’re holding it in both your hands, already moving to twist it around his neck as he struggles to get up. But you’ve always been fast and even faster now he’s made you a body this complex. The motors whirr as your left arm, still holding the cravat, takes what hair it can and pulls his head back. The springs ping as your right hand tightens and pulls. And only you can hear them.

His arms reach up to your face and you pull your head back to keep your vision clear. His eyes are wild. Now he’s scared. Just three more minutes and it won’t matter anymore. He tries to get to the switch on your shoulder, but he can’t reach. That’s why he’s on his knees. So trusting, how typical.

Don’t kiss him now, looking wild and terrified. His hair in a mess but perfect. Pleading with you without words. Don’t let go of the cloth and hold him, don’t explain why you’re doing this. Don’t. Don’t. Don’t.

He chokes.

It’s beautiful.

You let him go and lower yourself down to where he’s crumpled against the wall. He’s still fighting for air. Tears are streaming down his face, but he still looks up at you. Still softly.

You brush his hair out of his face and push it back behind his ears like he does all the time. You cup his face and look him squarely in the eyes.

“Now,” you say gently. “I’m placated, Doctor.”


End file.
